


Always The Quiet Ones

by Jolly Camaleonte (ginnyx)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 4 big hairy kids, DOMESTIC FREDDIE AND JIM, Fluff, Gen, Jim Hutton POV, M/M, Slice of Life, inspired by Mercury and Me, train sets, unexpected buddies John and Jim, wacky timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 17:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17349833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyx/pseuds/Jolly%20Camaleonte
Summary: Jim is just trying to get his driving license.Shenanigans ensue and friendships are made.(Basically John and Jim become friends and Queen are one happy family).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unlovelySara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlovelySara/gifts).



> Please understand: this is just for fun! I took real life episodes and gave them a personal spin, so it's like a canon divergence? Canon divergence from reality? It's set in the BoRhap verse just for my peace of mind, but it's basically Queen as we know them, (in fact, Phoebe Freestone -Fred's PA- is mentioned in this fic, bc I didn't have the heart to leave him out of Freddie's life).
> 
> At the end I'll specify what's real life and what's fantasy -pun intended!

“Do you need a hand?”

He said, just like that.

“I could give you a few lessons.”

Because he was _just like that_.

“Fred told us that you have some weeks before your test.”

And I would start to appreciate that attitude more and more in the years to come, but it started all there: with driving lessons.

 

̴

I had just closed the door behind me when I heard Freddie’s voice.

“So my husband— Jim? Jim, is that you?” he raised his voice at the end, hollering from the living room.

Instead of hollering back, I simply went there, still with the coat in my hands, and I popped my head in for a quick hello.

“Hullo,” and with a nod towards our guests of the evening –the fully fledged band— I was already going back but Fred stopped me.

“Wait a second, darling! I was just telling the boys about your adventuring in driving and they are giving me some advice about your first car.”

My coat and I wavered near the door.

It ended with me, still covered in dirt and mud from the garden, standing still for forty minutes listening at first car accident stories and random car trivia, then it derailed to car accidents in general. Roger Taylor had had some bloody wild ones (the one in Switzerland in the middle of a snowstorm with a Bentley? Still in my mind today). The lad had a sincerely bad luck with automobiles and, despite his love for them, he always let others drive. And Brian May was teasing him about the old days, when he would have had to read the streets signs for him, “because you are blind and your sunglasses are a pure attempt of self-destruction: are you trying to give us a sign, Rog? Is this a call for help?”.

I was honestly enjoying myself when John Deacon suddenly spoke up.

“I remember trying to get my driving license: the bitchiest part will be the practice exam.”

He looked at me for a moment, considering, then he asked:

“Do you need a hand?”

 

̴

And I said yes.

Because why shouldn’t I? After all, I already liked John and his cool, calm demeanor.

Except I didn’t know _half_ of it.

 

̴

The week after taking my driving license, I had a little sprint in my step and, between cars’ catalogue and trips to the garage to choose the various options, I started to think that, well, it’s not too late for a Christmas present if it’s still January.

So, one morning, after Fred cooee-d at me from the window, I took off my work gloves and opened the front door.

“Freddie, do you know John Deacon’s phone number?” I hollered.

“Ask Phoebe!” he replied from the kitchen, and it wasn’t an unusual reply.

So off I went, asked Phoebe and got the number.

 

˜

“So next Sunday would be good for you?”

“Yeah, wait: I’m gonna pen it down”, I waited, listening to the scratching sounds from the other end of the line; then distant voices, then John’s nasal tone again, “ah, Ronnie says you should come for lunch.”

“She is very kind but I’m doing this to thank you, not to impose myself again.”

“All right, all right, then come right after!”

I laughed.

“What, you miss me already? Longing for empty parking lots and buddies’ company?” I teased him.

“Yeah, John, did you miss trying to steal my man?”

I jumped in the air.

“Freddie!”

Here he was, head on my shoulder, arms around my stomach and lips leaned forward the receiver.

John was laughing in my ear.

“Dear, I didn’t notice you.”

But I should have imagined that his curiosity for my strange request would gnaw at him.

_That cheeky eavesdropper._

“Oh, but I bloody well noticed that you are cheating on me with John.”

He jabbed me in the belly and I laughed.

“But don’t worry: I would have done the same, given the occasion.”

And with that John was _wheezing_.

He couldn’t stop, and Fred giggled at the cacophony coming from the receiver.

 

̴

It was 10 pm when I got home that Sunday.

It had been 3 pm when I entered the Deacon’s household, and 4 pm when I finished assembling the electric train set that I had built for John’s kids the week before –as a thank you for the driving lessons.

That left 6 hours.

“Look what we’ve got here,” Freddie welcomed me, after I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He was at the table, in the living room, putting away his Scrabble’s tiles.

“I thought they had adopted you, by now.”

I left my body heavily hit the chair next to him.

I could see telltale signs of another player (probably Phoebe or Joe), even if unaccounted at the moment.

“You have no idea. I was done by midafternoon but John…”

I shook my head, huffing a laugh.

“He _just kept talking_. He didn’t stop. Not even for _a minute_.”

Freddie gave me a wicked smile.

_(He was so beautiful.)_

“See why we keep him from the press?”

Suddenly steps approached us.

“Who do we keep from the press?”

Roger Taylor himself, the unaccounted Scrabble player, came from the corridor wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Our John, Rog.”

And then, because he couldn’t help being a cheeky bastard when he got a good line: “You didn’t hear the news?”

Roger frowned while putting on his coat.

“News about John?”

“Yes: Jim is cheating on me with him. Apparently, he didn’t get together with me for money or fame, but for the bassist!”

Roger stopped right where he was and popped down on the remaining chair.

“Wait a minute, I always thought that _I_ was John’s gay thing!”

I sighed, faking sympathy.

“I’m sorry, Roger, we’ve already got a date on Thursday: he’s going to teach me how to skid and spin with the new Volvo.”

“WHAT,” came from my darling.

“ _WHAT_ ,” came from Mr. Taylor.

I just blinked at them, not expecting such a reaction.

“You can’t do that!”

“I wanna come!”

Fred turned towards him, dead serious.

“It’s already bad that a newly licensed driver is going to try fucking _car tricks_ that are dangerous on their own, and you want to add yourself and your poor piss luck into the mix?”

“I am _not_ unluc _ky_ , **I’m** —” Roger upset enough that he was already swinging through all his vocal range.

“You drive once a year! And that one time? You caught a snowstorm! In the middle of Switzerland, with a Bentley!”

He crossed his arms, angry.

“I shouldn’t have told you that story.”

“You can’t even see shit on a sunny day! And you kept. your. fucking. sunglasses _. on_.”

“I’m your mate! You should be on my side!”

“Not when your side may kill my man and half of the band!”

“YOU JUDAS, YOU ALL FUCKING **_JUDAS_**.”

And he swung the door open and shut.

 

̴

“I didn’t expect that,” I started, standing up, “ He’s going to be all right?”

Freddie huffed and waved a hand. He stretched himself over the chair like a cat.

“Don’t mind him, he has his moments. You, on the other hand, Mister…”

He poked at me with a finger, looking up.

“Don’t you dare do _any_ of the fucking dangerous things you mentioned.”

“Yeah, yeah”, I acquiesced, stroking his cheek.

“Good,” he said, closing the argument and holding out a hand.

I took it and pulled him up.

He gave me a quick peak.

“You just passed ‘John Deacon talked my ear off and, for the life of me, I didn’t want him to stop’ square and ‘Roger Taylor’s tantrum’ square in one day: you gained two coins. Pass to the bedroom to collect.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“The bedroom, nh? Fair enough.”

 

˜

On Thursday night I arrived at our usual parking lot.

Mr. Taylor was there, waving at me.

John just looked at me and wiggled his eyebrows.

 

˜

 

Freddie didn’t talk to me for two days.

(Next week he started calling me _Top Gun_.)

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter 2!  
> The story is complete just with this, but if you want a little angst and closure, after this go and read the next chapter, which I already posted.

The Rolls Royce was out of the garage in the middle of a downpour.

I stood there with my umbrella, for an instant, looking at the expensive and underutilized car getting mercilessly hit by raging drops and leaves.

 _Oh well_ , I said to myself and started walking towards the mystery of the day.

While approaching, I noticed that the garage door was ajar, and some light came out from under it.

I knocked.

“Ah, no more aluminum, Phoebe! We didn’t need that much, after all.”

“Not Phoebe,” I announced, peeking from the threshold.

And there they were.

_Three big hairy kids playing with a train set._

(Well, _my_ train set, the one I had made for our home after the Deacon success.)

The age of the players wasn’t the odd detail in the picture, though.

“What are you doing with all that tinfoil?”

Freddie moved a hand –and the scissor attached to it— to show off the small fleet of tiny trains and little tinfoil squares at his feet.

“I am cutting it and Roger is rolling it,” the drummer gave me a nod, his mind focused on the task.

I made a confused but assertive sound, still puzzled.

 

˜

They weren’t interested in me, all absorbed in their job.

I had already seen that atmosphere: in a Monaco’s record studio, on various European stages and even at Live Aid.

_This kind of energy, focus and sheer passion._

It wasn’t their usual job, it was a job nonetheless and as such they’d handled it.

Recognizing the mood but still curious, I quietly tiptoed around Freddie and Roger’s chitchat group and headed over an empty corner of the garage, to put down my wet umbrella.

Brian was at the nearby table, with a toy wagon and glue in his hands. At his right elbow there was some papers, a pencil and… some kind of formula?

I attempted to casually steal a glance, but I was too obvious: Brian sensed me and remerged from the deeply engrossed state he had been in.

He blinked at me, almost with effort, and then he pointed his nose towards the papers.

“We’re… uh, trying to speed up the trains a bit, seeing that these ones are slower than John’s.”

I almost began to babble out “With **_tinfoil_**?” but then it hit me.

_Slower than John’s?_

_How would they know that—_

The door suddenly flied open: enter John Deacon.

 

˜

“Ehy, Jim. Good to see you.”

He came bearing gifts: more glue and… toothpicks?

Surely my face was something, his smug look confirmed it.

“Hi, John. Good to see you too.”

He deposited the tools on the table, near Brian.

“I think we’re ready: time to test if our physics is really rusty.”

He picked up the train and the wagons on the surface: they all had pieces of tinfoil attached to.

“Uhm,” I tried, while Brian nodded and got up to call the other two, “John, are you sure?”

“Sure of what?” he asked, with an opened remote control in one hand and a screwdriver in the other.

I was lost for a moment, pondering on how I got myself and my trainset into this.

He misunderstood my silence and looked up to me.

“Are you all right? I didn’t think tinkering with your trains would upset you. If you want I can—"

“No— no” I shook my head and put a reassuring smile on my face and a hand on his shoulder, “I was just wondering _why_. Why are you doing this? You know that they are the same models, _precisely_ the same models that I got you. They can’t be slower.”

I saw him observing me for a moment, then opening his mouth but— abruptly gazing over my shoulder, he changed his mind.

“Exactly because they are the same but slower, we should try and fix them. Really, we should sue the company.”

“Who are we suing?” Freddie demanded, already interested.

The other three were around us now.

“No one, darling” I reassured him, calmly.

I eyed John and he smirked at me: I decided to play his game and see where it would take us.

_That smug bastard._

“Right then: if you’re quite finished flirting with your gay thing, John, I say we give the blasted thing a go!"

Brian nodded to Freddie and went behind the table.

“The calculations should be— I’m sorry: ‘gay thing’?” Brian interrupted himself.

I almost groaned.

“I thought Roger was John’s gay thing.”

_Here we go again._

Mr. Taylor spread his arms wide open, in a silent _see now?_ and arched his eyebrows.

John just pressed the remote into Brian’s hand.

“There’s a line, _bitch_.”

He said it with _such a_ **_tone_** that the level of sass would have _crushed_ us... except he cracked up right in the middle of it, beginning to giggle.

Brian was bent, half on the table, howling with laughter; Freddie screamed.

Roger stepped towards John, trying to remain stoic, grabbed his face and shook it.

“A line, _a line_ , a _li **NE**_ —"

Between gasps and hysterical giggles, John tried to bat away Roger’s hands, but he was barely able to breath, let alone moving limbs with coordination.

 

˜

“Again.”

Freddie’s eyes were lit and fixed on the garage door, where the train had crushed against with unexpected speed after flying out of the first curve of the rails.

Roger scrambled to the toy, picking it up, and then run back to the set.

“We could open the door and see who can shoot it farther!”

“Like some kind of piss contest?”

But I heard this conversation only marginally, more interested in the one happening right next to me.

“Fuck, toy trains don’t have differential gears.”

John was still grinning like mad, and not at all listening to Brian mumbling technobabble.

“I don’t think it’s possible to create a miniaturized version of it. The real problem is the centripetal acceleration.”

At this point I lost them because a gush of cold air slapped my neck.

I turned to see my man with his fingers still on the handle taking a few steps back.

“Fuck, it’s freezing! Hurry up, Roger: we’re getting everything wet!”

He had locked his arms around himself and stepped further away.

I just walked to him and put my scarf around his neck.

He watched me doing it, smiling.

“Thank you, darling.”

I was still fixing it, when Roger shouted “Think fast!” and threw his gloves.

They made a parabola over John’s head.

“Deacy? Where are you going?”

“We need sugar,” and he marched right into the rain.

Then Brian added

“We need to increase friction in some way: putting sugar on the rail tracks is the only way we could think of.”

_That poor train set._

˜

It was a while before the cold left completely our bones, but after a tea even Freddie took off the scarf.

We were in the sitting room, our three guests standing near the fireplace, hands stretched towards it.

Freddie got up from his armchair, to put his teacup down on the table; passing near them he couldn’t resist running up and slapping all of them in the butt in one go.

“Always the amateur,” Brian called him out, craning his neck.

“Ohhhh—love!” Roger began singing, swaying his hips against John's, “Ohhh lover—"

“— _BOYYYY_ ,” the other two joined in.

“What’cha doing tonight, ehy boy!” Freddie replied on cue and twirled, “dun dun de DA! Dudun de _dun_ **_dun_**! Dun… du— oh, fuck. How did it go?”

John laughed.

Brian tutted, “no, Fred, more like: dun dun de _daH_ , dundun du DUN.”

Freddie stared at him, blank, for a moment.

Then he frowned.

“Are you making fun of me?”

Brian put a hand on his heart and squeezed his eyes.

“I would _never_ , honey.”

Fred fake-decked him on the shoulder, grinning.

Roger huffed, “well, at least now you know how I feel when you go all ‘more _pish-posh_ ’ on me.”

The accused covered his face, chuckling.

“That’s how you sound like!”

“Oh yes,” John nodded, “ _pish-posh,_  typical drumming sound. Technical bass terms instead are ‘du-du-da de **BOM** _bang_ ’.”

“Well, apparently they are, seeing that you understand me every time.”

“Oh, believe me: we learned the language.”

 

˜

Hours later, I escorted John to the door, leaving warm laughs and clicking glasses behind.

There was no need to do so, but I knew he wanted me to, this time.

“I knew they are the same models,” he said, slipping on his coat, “I knew they are equally slow.”

Ah, finally the time to pull all the strings had come.

That didn’t mean I understood what had been all about.

“Then why?”

“Because they _are_ slow.”

He put his hands in his pockets and gave me a crinkled smile.

“Ronnie forbad me to ‘go and wreak’ the kid’ set with my tinkering, but I still wanted to try, so…”

I chuckled and shook my head.

“You are surely something, John” I conceded, patting his shoulder, “but why the subterfuge? All you had to do was ask.”

He scoffed.

“Yeah, you go and try tell Fred that you want to fiddle with _his_ _husband artwork_ , which he _especially made for him_ , just because you don’t want to ruin yours.”

My hand flew to my face, attempting to cover some of the redness that I could feel rising.

_(I couldn’t even deny.)_

He arched his brows.

“That’s what I thought”, he turned his heels and opened the door, “but telling him that, wait, this is _slower_ than mine, that there must be a factory error?, that _we_ can improve it, make it even _better_ than mine?”

Months before my mouth would have been hanging open, my brain trying desperately to find how this quiet, inconspicuous man had obtained such a wicked mind.

Now, I just laughed out loud at what was the proof of a decennial friendship spent in each other’s pocket.

I held the door open, while he stepped out in the cool air of that night.

“It was good to have you here, John: you are a good man.”

He squeezed himself, almost disappearing in his coat, looking at his shoes.

But then he looked up, right into my eyes.

_(For the first time I noticed how tall he was.)_

“You are too, Jim.”

And then again: eyes down then up again, quickly.

“Take care.”

 

_It wasn't raining anymore._

 

˜

After I had closed the door, Freddie walked up to me.

“How much did you hear?” I asked softly, meeting him in the middle.

“Just your parting declarations of love,” he smiled fondly, “nothing about your next rendezvous or how next time you’re going to jump through a ring of fire with a Ferrari or something.”

He held out a hand, and I took it and kissed it tenderly.

_(Happiness suited him so damn well.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (As I said, the story ends here... if you want to keep it strictly fluff, if not... read the next chapter.)
> 
> "Where has DIGNITY gone?"  
> "There isn't any."  
> (semi cit)
> 
> Hi, after this chapter I don't have any dignity left: it's all sappy fluff and badly described shenanigans. I'm good at dialogues, not so much at descriptions and action sequences, so I apologize if the storytelling feels muddy. As usual, if you have some criticisms to make or mistakes to point out, please do! I really appreciate it.  
> Also, I used every fucking word meaning "laugh" in the english language _multiple times_. Forgive me.
> 
> Reality check >> Facts that are FACTS:  
> -Jim kept his trainset in the garage and, to use it, he had to pull the car out (re: M&M)  
> -yes, Freddie had a underused Rolls Royce  
> -in one interview Jim said that one time he came home to find Brian, Roger and Freddie playing with the trains >> that's where the "three big hairy kids" quote comes from. I added John, and Jim... and a rainstorm.  
> -Freddie didn't really like being cold (re: Phoebe Freestone)  
> -ghghghg Fred making strange sounds to explain himself? MAGICAL, here I made a reference to One Vision making of (in which Roger's face is priceless) and to Who Needs you acustic. You can find them both on youtube.  
> -Brian has this cute thing that, when he mimics Freddie????, he closes his eyes. Bless him.
> 
> Big thanks to my friend Rexhina, who helped me with the technobabble part. As an italian literature student I know SHIT about physics and engineering, so every mistake is mine! The tinfoil extravaganza is mine. The sugar and the friction is hers.
> 
> \+ shout out to Sara (unlovelysara): Roger? putting his hands on John's face? All in your honor, sis. A whole messy scene, just for you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Month after the last chapter. It's September, it's Freddie's birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS CHAPTER 3!
> 
> I posted two chapter at the same time. If you haven't read the previous one, please go back.  
> Warning: a little angst.

 

John found me a bit later.

The party was roaring and people seemed filled with that general happiness required for the occasion.

I had just wanted a breather, so I had retired for a moment, here at the edge of patio –soft music in the distance, Ibiza’s air gently caressing my arms.

He found me there, with a glass of beer of his own. He did not talk, just gesturing _–may I?_

I nodded and shifted, to give him more space on the bench.

I’ve always liked John: the quietness, the wicked, unexpected sense of humor and, above all, his keen eyes.

_They bit me in the arse that night, though._

“What’s with Fred’s leg?” he asked, suddenly.

My eyes snapped to him, to the constructed carelessness of his attitude, the slow sipping of the beer.

Then he blinked and stopped faking it.

He regarded me with such an intensity –in gaze and voice— that my hands turned cold.

“Is he ok? Is it… ?”

He didn’t name it, and neither did I.

My stomach clenched.

“No,” my voice croaked. Then again, going for more firm, “no, it’s not that, it’s…”

I rambled out something, anything.

“Sun’s spots. Too much sun,” I cleared my throat, “nothing to worry about, really.”

He didn’t say anything, but I could see in his eyes the betrayal and the _utter, gnawing grief_.

I opened my mouth again, to attempt an explanation, an excuse, “Please, Freddie just—”

Then steps, foreign steps— and I froze, locking my teeth immediately.

Two people passed us by, fifteen feet away, sparing us only a glance: brief recognition and quick dismissal.

I was still on the edge when John snorted bitterly.

“My bad,” he stood up without even looking at me, “I’m _just the bassist_ , after all.”

The contempt in his voice almost shuttered me, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“Why even asking you: _what could a gardener know_.”

Then he left, and my voice with him.

 

˜

Brian was right: he could make you curl up and die with two sentences, but it was the first time I was at the end of that treatment.

I didn’t resent him, though. I was hurt, yes, but the worst of all was the feeling, the feeling of choking on your own thoughts, the inability to speak, to explain.

I had barely been able to respond to him through all the conversation, as if the thread of my shirt had reached inside my throat.

 

I didn’t know why, or maybe I did. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough, maybe I didn’t want to think about it.

Maybe while trying to protect Freddie’s secret I was afraid to give away mine. Maybe I didn’t accept it, the meaning of it.

 

I didn’t—

I did it to protect Freddie, to respect his will: he didn’t want his friends worried, just happy.

I did it for him: I knew this, and I knew that John knew it too.

But still…

 

John was right, I treated him like those people treated him, _us_.

Something not worth noticing, not even curiosity.

I stopped myself there and breathed, wiping my clammy hands against my trousers –they were like ice.

I wrung them together, trying to warm them, and I repeated to myself that it didn’t matter.

I knew it didn’t matter, I knew that the real important people in our lives were the ones that counted.

 

In the years I taught myself not to care, but in that moment my eyes stung anyway.

 

˜

I did not leave the party; quite the contrary, I walked right in the middle of it, searching for Freddie.

I had this idea in mind: that if I found him, if I could see him being happy, then I was going to be fine.

 

(And he was.)

_(Thank god, he was.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEY WERE HAPPY FOR MANY YEARS.
> 
>  
> 
> And I've done it! It's finished.
> 
> I pondered about this chapter: it's the first scene of the fic that I wrote, because I love endings. Still, while writing the remaing scenes of the fic... it was really fluffy and light, so I had my doubts abt ending it with BANG, ANGST!  
> But!! This scene is so important? To me and to Jim and John's relationship? I had to include it.
> 
> Facts that are FACTS:  
> -Freddie celebrated his 41th birthday in Ibiza (re: M&M)  
> -during the party John approached Jim and asked about Freddie’s health, bc he had seen some spots on Fred’s leg (sarcomas, typical of aids) but Jim could say anything bc Freddie still hadn't told the band. If you are reading this fic from a BoRhap POV, it hurts even more because here Jim is still not saying anything EVEN WHEN THE BAND ALREADY KNOWS. So it's like "you don't want to share with me even in a moment like this?". And yeah, Jim even in this case would respect Freddie's wish of not worrying his friends. He didn't like to talk about it.  
> -"I'm just the bassist" is a inside joke of John who's the sassyest bitch (re: M&M)  
> -"curl up and die with two sentences" bit I think Brian said it? Correct me if I'm wrong.  
> -the explanation of why Jim lied to John is ENTIRELY MINE.  
> -"Maybe while trying to protect Freddie’s secret I was afraid to give away mine", yep he was already diagnosed with AIDS, nope, he didn't tell anybody yet but NO, in the book he didn't use this to excuse his behaviour, it's just my spin on it.  
> -the "gardener" thing is also addressed in the book M&M, at the end, and it kinda broke my heart.
> 
> One last thing, I swear: canon timeline wise, this party happened BEFORE the driving license test (the former being in september and the latter in december-january) but, ehy, poetic license. It makes more sense storytelling wise to reverse the two scenes. Also, in the movie they do as they please with the timeline, so I'm feeling right at home!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hoped you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: SARA, THAT ONE ROGER SCENE IS FOR YOU! 
> 
> Second of all: I'm not a native speaker so forgive me for my poor english! I'd be really thankful to anyone who would be nice enough to point at the mistakes.
> 
> I just wanted to share my love for Queen and, in particular, for Jim and John.
> 
> Facts that are FACTS:  
> -Jim Hutton got his driver license later in life (re: Mercury & Me)  
> -John Deacon is a car entusiast as much as Roger  
> -Roger bad luck with car is true and Crystal Talyor can tell you a few story about it  
> -the whole Bentley in the snowstorm is TRUE shfhjjjsjdj please go and read Crystal Taylor recounting. What is NOT true is that he kept his sunglasses on, I made that up.  
> -yes, Roger has a poor eyesight  
> -Jim built tranisets for real! (more of that in the next chapter) (re: M&M)  
> -Freddie really got a Volvo for Jim as his first car (re: M&M)  
> -Jim really liked John (re: M&M)  
> -Fred and Rog's Scrabble nights were a thing


End file.
